Ego Check: The Game That Changes Everything Rewrite

The hallways buzzed with the usual Monday morning energy—students huddled in groups, swapping stories about their weekends, lockers clanging shut in rapid succession. For most, it was the start of another ordinary week. For Raxian, it was anything but.

He walked through the corridor with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, head down just enough to avoid catching anyone's eye. It wasn't like him to slip through unnoticed—he thrived on attention, usually the loudest and most confident in any group. But today, his stride lacked its usual swagger.

The weekend had not gone as planned. He had been so sure—so damn sure—that this would be it. Friday afternoon, he'd stood by his locker, confidently telling anyone who'd listen that by Monday, he'd hit Diamond. His promos were lined up, his win streak solid. It had felt inevitable.

Then came Sunday night, and the loss that shattered it all. A Yasuo smurf—no, the Yasuo smurf. AkarisLite had torn through his team like they were nothing, and worse, they had done it without breaking a sweat. Now, instead of walking into school as a newly minted Diamond player, he was still stuck in Emerald I.

Raxian clenched his jaw, replaying the match in his head as he rounded the corner. His friends were already there, loitering by his locker like they always did. Their laughter carried down the hall, sharp and grating against his already-frayed nerves. He knew what was coming.

"Yo, Rax!" one of them called out, spotting him immediately. "How'd it go, man? You make it to Diamond this weekend, or what?"

The words hit like a sucker punch. Raxian forced his features into something resembling a smirk, though it felt strained. "Almost," he said coolly, unlocking his locker with a flick of his wrist. "Got unlucky. You know how it is."

"Unlucky?" another friend echoed, leaning against the lockers with a grin. "Come on, man. You've been hyping this up for weeks. What happened? Did you choke?"

Raxian's fingers twitched as he rifled through his bag. His first instinct was to snap back, but he held his tongue. "Nah," he said, keeping his voice casual. "Ran into a smurf in my promos. Some Yasuo player. They were cracked."

The group exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of amusement and disbelief. "A smurf, huh?" one of them teased. "Yeah, sure. That's what they all say."

Raxian slammed his locker shut, the metal clang drawing a few stares from nearby students. He turned to face them, his golden eyes narrowing. "I don't make excuses," he said sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You want proof? Watch me climb this week. I'll hit Diamond, no problem."

"Alright, alright," one of them said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "No need to get defensive, man. We're just messing with you."

Raxian exhaled, forcing himself to relax. He could feel his reputation on the line, and the last thing he needed was to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. "Whatever," he muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I've got class."

As he walked away, their laughter followed him, grating against his pride like sandpaper. He knew he'd blown it this weekend, but that didn't mean he was giving up. League was everything in this city—a status symbol, a mark of skill and determination. He wasn't about to let one bad night ruin his shot.

He straightened his blazer as he approached the classroom, his steps regaining some of their usual confidence. If nothing else, he could still act the part. And acting was half the battle.

—-----------------------------

Opening Scene: The Classroom

Raxian pushed open the classroom door with a little more force than necessary, the creak of the hinges barely registering over the chatter of students. He strode in, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder, his free hand stuffed into his pocket. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by a tight, almost neutral expression that bordered on a scowl. He wasn't in the mood for conversation—not with his friends, not with anyone.

The weekend had been a disaster, and though he wouldn't admit it, the sting of failure clung to him like a shadow. All he wanted was to sit down, get through the day, and forget about the match that had cost him his promos. But he knew his friends wouldn't make it that easy.

"Yo, Rax, wait up!" a familiar voice called from down the hall, followed by the rapid thud of footsteps. He ignored it, heading straight for his desk near the middle of the room. His group of friends trailed in after him, their laughter loud and unbothered, as if Mondays weren't the worst thing to exist.

Raxian dropped his bag onto the floor with a thud and slumped into his chair. The classroom was already filling up, the buzz of conversations building as more students filed in. He tugged at his tie, loosening it just enough to make the uniform a little more bearable. His golden eyes flicked up briefly, scanning the room out of habit before settling back on his desk.

"Didn't even wait for us, huh?" one of his friends quipped as they slid into the seats around him. "What's the rush, man?"

"No rush," Raxian muttered, leaning back in his chair. He propped one foot against the desk leg, his posture casual but closed off. "Just felt like getting here early. Not my fault you guys are slow."

The group exchanged amused glances, clearly unfazed by his curt tone. "Right. Sure," one of them said with a smirk. "You're usually the one dragging your feet, but okay."

Raxian didn't bother responding, letting their chatter wash over him. They didn't press further, thankfully, shifting the conversation to something else. He tuned them out, staring blankly at the whiteboard at the front of the room. The frustration from the weekend lingered, simmering just beneath the surface, but he shoved it down. There was no point dwelling on it now.

—-----------------------------

From her seat near the back of the room, Fayne glanced up from her notebook. The quiet scrape of a chair against the floor had drawn her attention, and her sapphire gaze landed on Raxian as he settled into his usual spot. She didn't stare—just a quick flicker of her eyes before returning to the open pages in front of her. But in that brief glance, she noticed the tension in his posture, the way his friends' jokes seemed to roll off him instead of getting the usual rise.

Fayne wasn't one to pry—she never had been. She preferred the role of an observer, tucked away in the background, unnoticed but not unseeing. And she noticed a lot, whether she meant to or not. The way Raxian had walked in ahead of his friends, the set of his jaw, the absence of his usual swagger—it was all out of place. Subtle, maybe, but noticeable to someone who paid attention.

Leah's voice pulled Fayne back to the present. "Are you even listening?" her friend asked, nudging her lightly with an elbow. Leah was seated to her right, Mira to her left, the two of them chatting animatedly about something Fayne hadn't been following.

"Sorry," Fayne said softly, offering a small smile. "What were you saying?"

Leah rolled her eyes, but there was no malice in it. "I was saying we should go to the café after school. Mira's been dying to try that new caramel thing they've got."

"It's a caramel crème brulée latte," Mira corrected, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "And yes, we're going. No excuses, Fayne."

Fayne nodded absently, her eyes drifting back to her notebook. She wasn't particularly excited about the café, but she didn't mind tagging along. Leah and Mira did most of the talking anyway, and Fayne was content to listen. Besides, they made a good distraction when her thoughts wandered too far.

Her gaze flicked toward Raxian one last time before class began. Whatever was bothering him, she doubted he'd let anyone see it. He never did. But something about it lingered in her mind, a quiet curiosity she couldn't quite shake.

—--------------------------------------

The day dragged on like a slow-loading match, every class blurring into the next. Raxian kept his head down, trying to shake off the weight of the weekend, but the sting of his failure lingered. Worse, the halls buzzed with a hum of whispers, fragments of a name reaching his ears now and then.

"Sable."

It started as nothing—a passing mention during first period, a quiet conversation between two students in the hall. But by mid-morning, the name seemed to follow him, slipping into conversations around him like an unwelcome draft. By the time lunch rolled around, Raxian couldn't ignore it anymore.

He walked into the cafeteria with his friends trailing behind, their chatter as loud and carefree as always. Someone cracked a joke about his weekend, but he barely heard it. His focus was elsewhere.

"You good, man?" one of them asked, raising an eyebrow. "You've been weirdly quiet today."

"Yeah," Raxian muttered, brushing it off with a shrug. "Just got stuff on my mind. You guys go ahead—I've got other plans."

His friends exchanged glances, but they didn't press. "Alright," one of them said, pointing toward the lunch line. "We'll save you a spot."

Raxian nodded and turned away, weaving through the tables. He didn't have a plan, not really, but he wasn't about to sit with them and pretend to care about whatever they were talking about. Not when his mind was spinning.

As he passed a corner of the cafeteria, a snippet of conversation caught his ear. He slowed his pace, not enough to draw attention, but just enough to listen.

"I heard she's already climbed past Diamond," one voice said, hushed but excited.

"Seriously? That's insane," another replied. "And she's, like, new here? Who even is she?"

"Some girl named Sable," the first voice continued. "I heard she's a total prodigy. Apparently, she's been climbing the ranks faster than anyone. Might even be Master tier already."

Raxian's steps faltered, his brow furrowing. Sable. There it was again. A League prodigy? A new student? His chest tightened, a mix of curiosity and irritation bubbling up. He didn't like the sound of it—not because he didn't believe it, but because the idea of someone waltzing in and making waves in his domain felt like a challenge.

Master tier? He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep moving. He found an empty spot near the edge of the cafeteria and sat down, the conversation playing on a loop in his head. Sable. Who was she? How had he not heard of her before? And what made her so special?

His mind raced, each thought tangling with the next. He was already grappling with the sting of his own loss—now there was someone new to contend with, someone who might already be leagues ahead of him. The thought twisted in his gut, both a challenge and a threat.

I'll figure it out, he thought, a flicker of determination lighting in his golden eyes. Whoever this Sable is, I'm not letting her show me up.

—--------------------------------------

The final bell rang, signaling the end of the day, and Raxian wasted no time slipping out of the building. The buzz of students filled the courtyard, voices overlapping as they spilled into the streets in clusters. He walked alone, his bag slung over one shoulder, his steps quick and deliberate.

The city greeted him with its usual energy—a sprawling, neon-soaked metropolis that seemed to pulse with life. Towering skyscrapers stretched toward the sky, their facades adorned with holographic advertisements that shifted and shimmered in the late afternoon light. Giant screens played music videos from the hottest artists, their beats spilling into the streets and blending with the hum of traffic. A sleek mag-train zipped overhead on an elevated track, its reflection catching in the glass of nearby buildings.

The sidewalks were just as alive as the skyline. Street performers set up shop on every other corner, their music and dances drawing small crowds. A graffiti artist sprayed a mural onto a concrete wall, their movements fluid and precise. Vendors called out from neon-lit food carts, offering everything from steaming bowls of ramen to skewers of sizzling meat. The air was thick with the scent of spices, oil, and something sweet Raxian couldn't quite place.

This was his city—chaotic, colorful, and always moving. It was the perfect backdrop for ambition, for people chasing their dreams. But today, it felt like it was moving just a little too fast for him. The rush of it all only served to remind him of his own frustration, the weight of his weekend failure clinging to him like a bad smell.

He passed a massive holographic billboard featuring Ekko, one of his idols, mid-action pose. Below it, bold letters advertised a local gaming tournament, the prize pool flashing in bright gold. Normally, it would have caught Raxian's attention, maybe even lit a fire under him. But today, he barely glanced at it.

Turning a corner, he reached the residential district. The energy shifted here—still lively but less chaotic. The neon gave way to softer streetlights, their warm glow casting long shadows over the narrow sidewalks. The buildings were more modest, though still sleek and modern, their exteriors a mix of glass and polished steel.

Raxian's apartment building stood near the end of the block, a tall structure with balconies stacked like puzzle pieces. A small holographic sign by the entrance read "Aurora Heights" in soft, glowing letters. He pushed through the automatic glass doors, the cool, quiet air of the lobby a welcome reprieve from the noise outside. The walls were a muted gray, accented with strips of soft blue lighting that ran along the edges.

He stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the 12th floor. As the doors slid shut, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished metal. His hair was slightly tousled, the golden streak catching the light, and his eyes carried a weariness he couldn't quite shake. He sighed, leaning back against the elevator wall as it began its smooth ascent.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, and Raxian stepped out into the carpeted hallway. The familiar sight of his apartment door—1207—came into view, a small sense of relief washing over him as it always did after a long day. He fished his keycard out of his pocket and swiped it across the panel. The lock clicked open with a faint beep, and he pushed the door inward.

"Mom, I'm home," he called, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious entryway.

The apartment was large and modern, reflecting the upper-middle-class lifestyle his father's workaholic tendencies had afforded them. A wide, open-concept living room stretched out before him, the polished floors gleaming faintly in the soft light streaming in from the tall windows that lined one wall. The furniture was sleek but comfortable—a large sectional couch arranged around a wall-mounted screen, with a glass coffee table sitting neatly in the center. To the left was a modern kitchen with an island counter, its stainless steel appliances gleaming as though rarely touched. A staircase in the corner led to the second floor, where Raxian's room was located.

Despite the size and comfort of the space, there was always a sense of emptiness to it. His father wasn't home—he rarely was. And though his mother was here, as always, the silence that hung over the apartment had a weight to it. Raxian kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door, the thud barely registering in the quiet.

He walked further in, the faint hum of the washer and dryer catching his attention. Sure enough, his mom was in the laundry room, folding clothes with a practiced efficiency. She looked up when she heard him, her face lighting up with a warm smile.

"Welcome back, sweetie," she said, her tone as gentle as always. "How was school?"

Raxian shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "Same as always," he said, though there was an edge of fatigue in his voice. "What about you? Laundry day, huh?"

She laughed softly. "It's not much, just a few loads. Dinner'll be ready soon," she added, turning back to the neatly folded pile of clothes.

"What are you planning to make?" he asked, pushing himself off the doorframe and stepping into the room.

"Oh, just something simple," she said with a dismissive wave. "I'll whip something up once I'm done here. Don't worry about it."

Raxian frowned slightly. He could see through the casual way she said it—this was just part of her routine, a routine she stuck to because she had so little else to fill her time. He glanced at the pile of clothes she was working through, the faintest pang of guilt tugging at him.

"I'll cook," he said suddenly.

His mom looked up, startled. "You don't have to do that, Raxian. I've got it covered—"

"Seriously, it's fine," he cut in, his tone firm but not unkind. "You've been doing this all day. Let me handle dinner tonight."

She hesitated, her hands pausing over a folded shirt. "You sure? You must be tired from school—"

"I'm sure," he said, already heading toward the kitchen. "Go relax or something. I've got this."

His mom sighed, but the smile on her face softened. "Alright, if you insist. But don't overdo it, okay?"

Raxian waved a hand over his shoulder in response, already pulling open the fridge. He scanned its contents, mentally piecing together a quick meal. It didn't need to be fancy—just something simple and satisfying. Grabbing a few ingredients, he set them on the counter and rolled up his sleeves.

—------------------------------------------------------

The kitchen soon filled with the sound of sizzling and the rich aroma of garlic and herbs. Raxian moved with a confidence born from practice, chopping vegetables with precision and stirring a pan of sauce simmering on the stovetop. He didn't cook often, but when he did, he enjoyed it—a small, quiet way to unwind and focus his mind on something other than the frustrations of the day.

His mom wandered into the kitchen as he worked, leaning against the counter with a faintly amused expression. "You're spoiling me, you know," she said.

"Yeah, well, you deserve it," Raxian replied without looking up, his voice lighter now, free of the tension that had been weighing on him all day. "You do enough around here already."

She smiled, her eyes softening. "Thank you, Raxian. That means a lot."

He glanced up at her briefly, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Don't get used to it," he said teasingly, turning back to the stove.

—------------------------------------------------------

By the time he was finished, the table was set with two plates of pasta topped with a simple yet flavorful tomato-based sauce, garnished with fresh basil and grated cheese. His mom sat across from him at the dining table, the two of them sharing a rare moment of quiet connection.

"This is delicious," she said after taking her first bite, her expression brightening. "You've really outdone yourself."

Raxian shrugged, though he couldn't hide the hint of pride in his eyes. "It's nothing special," he said, twirling some pasta onto his fork. "Just glad you like it."

The two of them ate in comfortable silence for a while, the faint glow of the city's lights streaming through the windows. It wasn't often they had moments like this, and Raxian found himself wishing it could happen more often. But the thought of his dad's absence hung in the back of his mind, a familiar, unspoken weight.

"How's Dad?" he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

His mom paused, her fork hovering over her plate. "Busy, as usual," she said softly. "You know how he is."

Raxian's jaw tightened, but he didn't press further. He knew the answer. He always did.

As they finished their meal, he cleared the table, brushing off his mom's protests that she could handle it. It was a small thing, but it felt like the least he could do.

—------------------------------------------------------

After a quick shower, Raxian felt the tension of the day begin to fade. He ran a towel through his hair, smoothing out the streak of gold that framed one side of his face, before stepping into his room. It was his sanctuary, a space where every corner spoke to his passions. A glowing True Damage poster dominated one wall, Ekko front and center in his signature pose, his figure almost alive in the neon hues. Beneath it, a high-end gaming setup glinted faintly, every piece customized to reflect his unwavering devotion to the group.

Raxian made his way to his wardrobe, pulling on his "gamer attire" with the precision of a pre-game ritual. The first layer was an oversized t-shirt, soft and comfortable, followed by knee-high shorts over pants—an unmistakable nod to Ekko's iconic style. He tugged on his True Damage jacket, the fabric worn from frequent use but still his favorite piece. His mom had surprised him with it last year after an especially good report card, her quiet way of showing support for his gaming dreams. Around his neck, he layered several necklaces, finishing the look with the True Damage ring he'd found at a merch store downtown.

The accessories didn't stop there. A True Damage headset rested on his desk, its design sleek and futuristic. The same logo gleamed on his keyboard and mouse, both top-of-the-line gear his mom had convinced his dad to invest in. Even his PC case bore the group's emblem, lit up with customizable RGB lighting that pulsed to the beat of whatever playlist he had on. His dad might grumble about the expense, calling it a "privilege," but Raxian saw it differently.

Privilege, my ass, he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening as he adjusted his headset. His dad had barely been around for most of his childhood—what right did he have to dictate anything? Sure, the man worked hard, but even the rare moments he was home, he seemed more interested in his phone or emails than in his family. The thought burned in the back of Raxian's mind, a familiar resentment he couldn't shake.

It wasn't about the money. His dad provided for them, sure, but that wasn't enough. What good was financial support if you couldn't spare five minutes to ask how someone's day was? He couldn't imagine how his mom had put up with it all these years. The woman deserved so much better, yet she still smiled, still pretended everything was fine. That was what pissed him off the most—watching her cover for someone who didn't deserve it.

Raxian exhaled sharply, shoving the thoughts aside. He wasn't going to let his dad invade his headspace tonight. This was his time, his sanctuary, his grind. He plopped down into his gaming chair, the seat adjusted perfectly to his height, and booted up his PC. The hum of the machine came to life, accompanied by the soft glow of his screen.

The League of Legends logo flashed onto the monitor, the familiar theme music filling the room. His hand instinctively moved to his mouse, fingers adjusting to its contours with practiced ease. The grind was calling. Emerald I was a slap in the face, but tonight? Tonight, he'd climb. He had to.

—------------------------------------------------------

"Goddammit," Raxian hissed, leaning back in his chair and glaring at the screen. The rank stared back at him, mocking him. Emerald II – 40 LP. He hovered over his profile, his cursor trembling with the irritation bubbling under his skin. He couldn't stop staring at it, the green emblem glinting in a way that felt more like an insult than an achievement. He had been so close just last week, one win away from promos to Diamond, and now? He was stuck in this hellhole of a rank.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He knew League was a roller coaster—everyone said that—but this? This felt like it was cursed.

Every match was the same story, a different flavor of disaster. One game, it was the bot lane feeding relentlessly, practically delivering gold to the enemy team. The next, it was a jungler who couldn't smite to save their life—or anyone else's for that matter. And don't even get him started on the toplaners who did nothing but afk-farm, only to show up late-game and contribute absolutely nothing.

Raxian clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on his mouse. Surely, it wasn't him. No, he wasn't the problem. He was handling his matchups just fine. He was landing his skill shots, hitting his combos, making the plays. It was the rest of the team that was dragging him down. It had to be.

Still, the rank on his profile didn't lie. Emerald II—40 LP. Lower than where he'd started. All that time, all those hours spent grinding, and for what? To end up here?

"This is so pointless," he growled, slamming his mouse down harder than he meant to. He winced as it rattled against the desk but didn't bother checking if it was okay. His frustration had already spilled over, leaving him too drained to care.

With a sharp exhale, he clicked out of the client and shut down his PC. The screen went dark, leaving him in the dim glow of the city lights spilling in through his window. He pushed himself out of his chair and flopped onto his bed, his arms sprawled out as he stared at the ceiling. The silence of his room pressed in on him, broken only by the faint hum of the cooling PC.

"Could today get any worse?" he muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with exhaustion and irritation.

The words hung in the air, unanswered. He didn't even want to think about what the rest of the week would look like if this was how it started. For now, all he could do was close his eyes and try to forget the green emblem that wouldn't stop haunting him.